


Dragons of All Types

by Aithilin



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Dragons, Fluff, M/M, Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:39:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times the family came across dragons in legends and stories, and the one time the dragon was real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snapdragons

Like many of their adventures, it started with ancient ruins in a new world, a puzzle, and a question. There was a crystal and crumbling statues— some so old that they had already fallen to dust. They were great blocks of creatures, with open, menacing mouths, but soft, protective eyes. Bearded and horned and some with shattered wings half-buried in the flowers at their feet. They stood among the doorways and bright fields that were once courtyards and temple grounds— lined the edge of walls reclaimed by the nature around them. It was bright and sunny and an open, welcoming place for all the stories of fear and terrible power they had heard from the nearby village. 

There were stories in every world they visited. Stories of great and terrible creatures that destroyed cities and perched in the ruins of ancient places. Of creatures that spoke and roared and killed as easily as they could grant wishes. There were statues and stories and little pieces of relics everywhere, but none like the soft-eyed, hard-toothed statues Syaoran now studied. They were covered in little yellow flowers— signs of good luck as they grew wild, and bad luck if tamed. Little flowers that moved in the wind like little beasts snapping at the grass and stone around them. Stalks and strings of yellow, and only yellow, so far, that grew wild with the long grasses they had to trudge through. 

While Syaoran worked, Fai sat with Mokona among the flowers. Kurogane pretended that his attention was elsewhere; that he was studying the ruins for signs of long-dead curses and warriors and beasts that left the marks in the stone where claws dragged and old weapons caught. 

They were the only ones there. 

No one in the little village at the base of the hill came close to the ruins without some youthful dare or easily shattered bravado. They jumped at shadows and spoke of different worlds that could open where the blood of dragons fell. There were stories of long shadows that snatched at the naive children exploring the fields with stone claws. Of cloudy black wings rushing storms in without warning until visitors were chased away. Of lovers come to meet and young men to prove their bravery— all found dead among the stones in the morning. The villagers whispered about magic and souls and the dead dragging the living through the ruins to a waiting beast below the ground. 

The travellers already knew that if they decided to leave without stopping back at the little village, the stories would just grow and twist, and there would be a disappearance within living memory to talk about now. Kurogane wondered what the village would do then. Or what they would do if they ventured back for supplies and goodbyes. 

He most certainly wasn’t watching Fai sitting among the little yellow flowers. He wasn’t watching those artisan hands— so skilled at arts and magic and so many other things that could make them both blush— disappear into the long grasses as the mage entertained himself while Syaoran worked. 

He should have known that Fai would have liked the flowers more than the statues. 

“Kuro-pon’s looking at me.”

“Because you’re up to something.”

“Me? Never?”

Mokona disappeared into the grasses, bouncing her way into the ruins with a stalk of flowers for Syaoran. It was almost time for lunch, and she would not be denied a family meal out in the sun. Fai just grinned. 

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing Kuro-sama would approve of, of course.” The mage held up a little stone he had found in the grass, traces of his magic slipping across it’s rough surface. “Poking dragons.”

Rolling his eyes, Kurogane turned his attention away again, watching Mokona pester Syaoran as he worked— as he sketched out the reliefs he had found along the base of one wall far in the back, and compared the lines and dots of foreign language to the guides he had collected in the village. He stepped around Fai as the mage played with his magic, letting his hand stroke through blond hair as he passed by-- hair the colour of the benign flowers around them. 

He hadn’t even realised that he had stopped in the shade of one of the statues until Syaoran was at his elbow, Mokona sitting in his hair. He hadn’t thought he was distracted, until he realised that his arm— flesh and blood and bone— had been raised and he had drawn his fingertips across the lines gashed into the statue. He didn’t think anything of it until he realised that his fingers had followed the path of fresh flowers that had started to crack the stone apart and grow like magic out of the strange markings left in the stone beasts. 

“The yellow is for peace,” Syaoran explained, book still open in his hands. “The red are life, the purple are magic, the white for safety.”

“What the hell are you on about, kid?” The flowers in the stone were so red they were almost black. He hadn’t seen the other colours around them before. Just the vivid yellow. Now that he really looked at the fields and the pathway and the ruins, he saw the strange colours of the flowers blooming. They weren’t just yellow. 

“They were yellow a moment ago.” Syaoran lifted the flowers he had collected to study; yellow, reds, white, some pink. “They change near the statues, and it seems to focus on who’s closest to it. It’s supposed to be the magic crystal I read about that does it.”

“It just changes flowers?”

“It warns thieves.”

“By changing flowers, kid.”

Syaoran indicates Fai where he still sat, now surrounded by varying shades of blues and purples as well as the yellows of earlier. “It’s warning us not to go after it.”

Kurogane frowned; these were flowers, not a warning. But the darker colours were certainly closer to Fai— to the mage who easily plucked them and held up a hand to ward off his companions from getting to close while he studied the strange magic. Kurogane didn’t like it when Fai told him to stay back as he tested something new. “They’re just flowers, kid.”

“Syaoran-kun,” Fai called, brushing the long grass from his clothes as he stood; “just what is this crystal you were looking for?”

“It’s supposed to be the soul of a dragon. It holds a great magic.”

“Is this something you really want to go looking for?”

There were clouds moving in, and the shadows of the ruins had seemed to stretch. Fai offered Syaoran the blue flowers as he moved closer, and Kurogane could see that the mage was being careful where he stepped now. Syaoran shook his head, pressing the offered flowers into the book with the rest he had collected. “No, it’s not what I’m looking for.”

As the words left his mouth, the winds changed and the cheerful weather returned. Fai beamed, as he usually did when pleased with Syaoran’s more sensible decisions, and set the stone he had been playing with earlier at the feet of the statue they stood near. “Then I think it’s time to go.”

As the boy nodded and Mokona helped him gather his things again, Kurogane glared at the field full of lovely yellow flowers. “Did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Whatever the hell just happened.”

“Of course not! Kuro-sama, I’m offended you even think I could be so scary and threatening.”

“You idiot. You went looking for the damned crystal, didn’t you?”

“I sat right there.”

“With your magic.”

“I just went looking for the source of the strange flowers, is all.” Fai grinned as he ducked out of Kurogane’s reach. “Kuro-daddy would have kept us safe!”

Worlds away, weeks later, when they had dragged their way across a battle and city and to another set of ruins in a foreign world with all the same sort of stories, Kurogane leaned back against the cold stone of the demons they were warned again— who lay dormant and dead without their source of power striking life through their stone flesh. He watched with tired eyes as Fai wrapped a bandage around Syaoran’s wrist as the boy tried desperately to record the events of that world in one of his books. There was magic and death, and the stones cracking as they were called to life by a creature they had been warned against. 

He smiled as he caught Fai’s eye, as Mokona cuddled against his chest and Syaoran tried to make sense of the choas they had just survived. And he realised that there was a little sprig of familiar yellow flowers blooming by Fai’s knees— a snapdragon, as this world called them.


	2. Dragon Magic

They found out quickly, after the peace and acceptance of their quirks in Clow, that there were very few worlds that didn’t view a man like Kurogane wandering around with a sword at his side as a threat. And while very few of the authorities in most of those worlds felt the burning need to confront a man like Kurogane with a sword at his side, there were more that had no problem with acting first and asking questions later. Yet storing Ginryuu was not always the best option, as they had come across plenty of worlds where Mokona was the first of them to get into trouble. Where she could disappear with the kid, or there would be some new magic that Fai hadn’t yet encountered that prevented her from bringing out whatever it was she had stored for them. 

That’s how they found themselves like this, sat face-to-face on their shared bed with Ginryuu between them and Fai’s magic pulsing peacefully as it worked with whatever spells and blessings were already on the sword. 

“Souhi was easier,” Fai muttered as he worked, as his magic brought the centuries of combined magics to Ginryuu’s surface. “It was something fresh to work with.”

“Are you saying you can’t do it, mage?”

Kurogane did not tease often, but it still surprised Fai when he did. He was rewarded with a wicked smirk from the blond, and another layer of ancient magic opened to let the new spells in. The plan had been to strengthen the blessings already wrapped around Ginryuu before securing it so Kurogane can call on the weapon as needed. But the magic of long-dead miko in Suwa was very different that the strange runes and sigils and lines upon lines of spells written in Fai’s native languages. The mage had to learn what each new blessing did before he could coax it to accept his magic. 

“Is Kuro-sama challenging me?”

“It was your idea to do this, idiot. Just don’t destroy my sword or undo my mother’s magic.”

“So many demands, Kuro-tan.” Fai muttered over the sword as another layer opened. 

Kurogane had always known that the magics in his family was a living thing. It grew with each generation and each new trick and style— just like their fighting style. Kurogane knew that he fought differently than his father did— he overpowered his enemies, found their weaknesses quickly and hacked at it until they crumbled away. He was precise, and strong, and indominable. His father had been… Well, he wasn’t really sure. His father had been precise, certainly, but spread out his attention more— had more opportunity to view a battle from different angles with different participants, and could focus on how his men held up in the fray. Kurogane only had two other warriors to control on his side, and that was more than enough. 

So he assumed it was the same with the magic that protected Ginryuu. Fai was clever and certain, his temper hard and unyielding when it rose. He— and be extension his magic— burned cold and vicious and biting when riled. His instincts to protect drove his magic to be faster, stronger, but still tethered and carefully controlled. He could send out spells, but still nullify their power the second the wind changed and it was his family in the way of it. Kurogane knew that it wasn’t like his mother’s magic; it felt different. His mother’s power had been passive until she called up enough energy to direct it— it was rare because it wore her out. Feeding wards and ancient spells was very different than creating them yourself, and he knew that his mother only created a handful of new spells in her life— it was the slow sapping of her magic that finally weakened her. 

Fai’s magic seemed limitless and constantly replenishing. 

“Just a few more,” Fai said, hands moving over the sword as he prodded and eased the very first spells to the surface. His own magic had merged with the old; soft foreign runes floating within the ebb and flow of more familiar magics. “I don’t think they like me.”

Kurogane huffed, amused at the idea that the power in the sword for centuries had somehow developed enough sentience to actively dislike the blond. “I don’t think we have enough money to cover the damages if you unleash the dragon at the heart of this thing.”

“There’s a dragon in here?”

“There’s supposed to be. But it’s and old story.” Kurogane smiled as soft words started to leave Fai’s lips— sweet-talking the old magic. “Just a fairy story.”

There was no real reward to Kurogane’s eyes when Fai finally managed to merge his magic with the final layers around Ginryuu. Everything snapped close to him again and all he could sense was the pulse of Fai’s magic with the comforting sense of his homeworld magic— with Tomoyo’s blessing and promises, with his mother’s love etched into the blade, and the pulse of grandmothers and grandfathers and magic in his bloodline back centuries. Fai’s magic— his own promises and love and sense of duty seemed to fit right in. But there was nothing to show for the work Fai just put in. No flash of power, no promising glow about the blade. It just looked like Ginryuu again. 

“Alright, step two,” Fai beamed and took Kurogane’s right hand in his own left, already calling up fresh power. The signs of exertion were subtle on the blond— too used to wearing masks to hide what he did and how he did it. The switch between spells would eventually take its toll. “Hold still, Kuro-sama.”

Kurogane watched as Ginryuu was unmade before him, as every aspect of it faded from sight and into the warmth of his living arm. He could feel the spell— like he felt the old one before Celes— in his arm. It was tied to blood and bone and nerve and muscle. It was warm and cold (Fai’s magic was cold, even if it burned) and latched itself onto Kurogane like a leech to feed the spell as it settled. Kurogane didn’t like the feel of the foreign power in his body, but the strength that came with it was comforting— the little piece of Fai that he could feel and sense and keep alive. 

“Now, don’t go cutting off this arm too. You’re running out of limbs for this.”

“Then stay out of trouble, mage.” Kurogane flexed his hand as the visible portion of the magic faded. He still felt whole. He reached up to stroke Fai’s hair. “What do I owe you for this?”

“What makes you think you owe me?”

“Because those are your rules. You do magic for me, I do something for you.”

“This is really more for all of us. Can’t have you unarmed.”

“Idiot.”

“Brute.” Fai grinned and leaned forward for a kiss. “Breakfast. Something sweet and syrupy and warm.”


	3. Irezumi

He remembered the marking on his father’s arm sometimes. The long serpent shape that his father once insisted was a dragon. It twisted in his skin, faded and softened at the edges. He remembered his father telling him that the head that came to rest on his hand had teeth bared— prepared for battle— that the way it ran up his arm was a sign of protection and strength; that the method of making the mark was a sign of a strong, courageous warrior— tested through the repeated press of handmade tools against his flesh when he was young— piercing pains and the amount of sake he and his friend consumed during the whole thing. He told Kurogane about the way the room was silent during most of it, except for the sound of the work— the _shakki shakki shakki_ as ink was carved into his arm. 

Kurogane remembered his father saying how crisp and detailed the lines were when he was young. How he had wished he asked for more details. Maybe a bird to represent his wife. 

Kurogane only remembered them as soft edges and vague shapes— warped with the years. Cut through with scars and faded from the sun while his father tanned in the heat of summer. 

Maybe he only really remembered the details of it because he remembered the story of it. The great dragon— his father— the head of an army, the cunning, clever beast lord. He had only seen his father in battle, proper battle, a handful of times before the end of Suwa. He was calm in battle, sure of his power and his men, clever and direct as he led. The dragon was meant to be a reminder, he once said, that uncontrolled power wasn’t healthy. That to lead in battle, you had to be the head, not just the teeth or claws. That the dragon was strength and wisdom and power and all the things that real men needed to be. 

There was the cunning of the beast, the strength of its magic, the power of its nature. But the kindness of its age, and the wisdom of its experience. 

Kurogane remembered all the stories about that dragon. About the way Ginryuu protected their clan, loaned them power when they needed it. The way his father— drunk in youth and having just lost a bar brawl— went beaten and bloodied to an artist to sit through hours of pain to get this reminder of humility. That he wasn’t teeth or claws; he was the head. That he would be the head of the dragon Suwa needed. 

It took Kurogane far longer to learn those lessons. As as the mechanical needle buzzed against his own flesh, he wondered if it would look the same as his father’s marking in another ten, fifteen years. If it would soften against his flesh (because he couldn’t bear the thought of letting something meant to be so permanent be wasted on an arm he could replace if it failed him) and blur at the edges. If the steady pinpricks of pain compared to the needles his father had taken. If the ink would fade, or the shape would twist. 

The only changes to the design he allowed was to give the dragon eyes and a bit of colour. He didn’t remember his father’s mark having eyes. He only remembered the shape and the scars and the way his father laughed at his curiosity. And the way his mother scolded him for considering ever doing to same. 

He remembered his father saying that his dragon represented the man he wanted to be at the time, and then a reminder of who he should be as he came into his own. The one-eyed retainer once said that the dragon was just a convenient way to find his idiot father in battle. His mother once told him that it was a mark of power because his father wanted it to be one— but it was just ink and flesh and pain for anyone who didn’t understand it. 

To Kurogane, the black twist of the dragon that his father carried on his arm, was Ginryuu. The real Ginryuu. 

Kurogane kept the design as close as he could remember— the long twist of black that started at his hand (covering a scar, Kurogane once thought, but he didn’t remember if that was true, or his own plans before he cut off his own scarred reminder of his failings to save Fai) and end at his shoulder. With teeth bared (silver, because this world could) and claws out (black, like the body), but with blue eyes. 

He was sure to give his dragon blue eyes. Because Fai’s teasing would be unbearable if he indulged in a proper marking to represent the rest of his family.

Blue eyes for magic and safety and kindness and sacrifice. And all the things he wanted to remember were more important than mindless, directionless strength.

Fai still teased him when he saw it. Laughed and helped him tend to the mark, scolded him for using the tricks of the world they were in rather than asking for something created with magic and blessings that would be stronger. He laughed as Kurogane pulled him close to kiss his hair and tell the idiot mage that the magic wasn’t meant to be a part of it right away. His family created its own magic. 

And when it was healed and set, and they had long since moved on, Fai would take his hand on quiet nights alone and run his long fingers over the ink. His hand would slip from Kurogane’s shoulder as they moved together and the mage would be fascinated by the blue eyes of the creature as they hands locked when Kurogane pressed him against their bed. He would smile and tease and beg for the stories of the dragon Kurogane grew up with. 

And Kurogane would indulge in the quiet moments, and remember spying on his parents when he couldn’t sleep and the soft rumble of his father’s voice as he told stories about dragons and magic and long journeys of forsaken heroes.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this is a 5(+1) thing. It was going to start with five different types of dragons, but took a life of its own really fast.


End file.
